


Bitchin Time Machine Story

by GrownUpBabyAlligator



Category: No Fandom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-23
Updated: 2014-05-23
Packaged: 2018-01-26 05:04:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1675739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GrownUpBabyAlligator/pseuds/GrownUpBabyAlligator
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I get bored and start stories that I never finish</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bitchin Time Machine Story

It's the worst time machine ever.

You know, at least in Back to the Future, the car was a DeLorean, and it was new and shiny and fast. This one is 34 years old and the paint is faded, and you have to pump the gas pedal twice before you try to start it, and you have to use a screwdriver for the ignition because the key is broken off inside. You have to really stomp the accelerator if you want to go fast, you can feel how heavy the car is as you speed up. It has vinyl seats that smell weird and it has leaky t-tops that surely affect the structural integrity of the car, because it groans and flexes worryingly when you take corners too fast. But no one expects a beat-up old '79 Camaro to be a time machine.

At least I didn't. It's a long story, but I basically found out that if you drive on a perfectly straight, deserted road, if you can get the boat of a car up past 120 miles per hour, you can go back in time. Well, not to any time you want, but to roughly whatever the FM radio is dialed to. From '88 to '08.

The first time it happened I had no idea what was going on and I was confused as to why all the familiar housing developments had gone. It was eerie suddenly seeing empty fields and wooded patches where I was used to seeing Mc Mansions with their postage-stamp lawns and their identical facades-- only the color of the paint to differentiate your house from your neighbor's. I drove around for a while, confused as hell and wondering if I somehow got turned around and was in a similar nearby town and not the yuppie neighborhood near my Mom's house. But after a while I knew I would need to get some gas (the gas gauge doesn't work but I've developed a pretty accurate sense of how long I can go before I need to fill the gas hog). When I stopped at the first gas station I found, I did a double-take.

Gas was 75 cents a gallon. Well, 74.9 cents to be exact. I knew that couldn't be right. It was $3.65 on Monday when I filled up last time.

A gas station attendant jogged up to my car-- a cute teenage boy with a decidedly retro style-- glorious feathered sandy blond mullet, acid wash jeans, and a bold rainbow-striped polo shirt. I pointed at the price on the pump and asked, "Is that really how much it costs?" He looked at the pump, his hair flowing majestically as he shrugged and said, "Yeah, man. It's been the same price for weeks now."

I decided not to question it and I asked him to fill it up as I jogged inside to pay. I got inside and as I was waiting for my total I noticed all the food on the shelves had retro-80s packaging. Like, really all of it. I picked up a bag of Doritos and turned it over and see that the expiration date was 8-25-1988. I just stared at it for a second, astonished. It's like, Antiques Roadshow material! Why is this on the shelf?! I kind of wanted to buy it just because it was so weird. Then I walked over to the magazine rack and picked up a copy of Rolling Stone. Tom Cruise was on the cover, and he looks like a teenager he's so young. And the magazine front says it's the August 11, 1988 issue. I put it back in the rack and picked up another one. August 1988. I picked up a newspaper. It was August 8, 1988.

All the hair on the back of my neck stands up, but the cashier tells me my tank is full and she can get me rung up. It's the cheapest tank of gas I've ever bought. I look in my wallet and realize that's good because I'm not in the habit of carrying a lot of cash, and I don't think my credit cards will work.

If this is 1988. How could it be 1988?!

"Are you okay, lady?" the cashier asks, "You look, like, really pale."

I look at her and notice the blue eye shadow and the teased hair, the neon green spandex tube-top. Her earrings are huge and dangly, dreamcatchers with feathers hanging down to her collarbone. I can see that the weight of them is pulling on her earlobes, stretching the piercing into a slit. I can smell the chemically scent of hairspray and strong perfume.

I feel sick all of a sudden, but I just say, "No, no. I'm fine" as I stumble backward and back to my car. I sit in the driver's seat for a minute or two, but it's really fricken hot in the car. The t-tops allow the sun to beat right in, the vinyl seats stick to the backs of my thighs, and the A/C has never worked so it's always miserable unless you're driving with the windows rolled down. Anytime you stop the heat settles on you and makes you feel like you're melting. I grab the screwdriver from the center console and crank on it, bringing the Camaro to life.

I've really never given a whole lot of thought to time travel, and I'm at a loss as to what I should do now. I can't go home because I don't live there yet. Instead I drive the familiar route to the levee. All the housing developments around here don't exist yet. I park much further away than I normally would because there's a big field where there's usually a quiet culdesac. I walk slowly to the levee and look out at the river. It's the same but different, slightly. It doesn't follow quite the same path it used to--that it will eventually-- and it really irks me for some reason. I pick up a stick and toss it in the river, watching it float away downstream.

How do I get back to 2014?


End file.
